


The Origin of Tradition

by Elizabeth



Category: Arthurian Mythology & Related Fandoms, Merlin (TV)
Genre: Canon Era, Could Be Canon, Fluff and Smut, Lupercalia, M/M, One Shot, Rituals, Sex, Valentine's Day
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-14
Updated: 2019-02-14
Packaged: 2019-10-28 00:41:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,450
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17777291
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Elizabeth/pseuds/Elizabeth
Summary: "When their lips meet, Arthur feels as if he has climbed the tallest Isgaardian mountain, been struck by lightning, and triumphed over nature herself. Merlin’s lips part against his and he thinks that no, this is death, and he has passed through the veil to Avalon. Merlin’s tongue tangles with his own and he thinks this feeling cannot be of this world; nothing has before nor ever will compare to this ecstasy.He is wrong."A little Valentine's Day smut for you.Who needs dates when there's fic?





	The Origin of Tradition

**Author's Note:**

> I am madly rushing this, so please excuse typos and errors. I'll proof it tomorrow, but I wanted to get it posted for the "holiday."
> 
> Also, yes, it's ridiculous. I'm trying to capture the essence of the day. Tres romantic, no?

Like most bad ideas, it was Gwaine who thought of it. “It’ll be fun,” he said. “Nothing can go wrong,” he said. Later, Arthur will wonder if it was as innocent as Gwaine made it seem, this festival. But now, heart racing and panic barely in check, he can’t help but think it’s his fault. Now everything has changed and it’s because he lost control.

How could he not lose control with Merlin, indecent and sweating, so obviously taken by the ritual?

 

_One Week Earlier_

 

“They call it Lupercalia.” Gwaine grinned. “Think of it as an opportunity.”

“For what? Drunken excess?” Arthur asked.

“No, nothing that mundane, Princess. This is all about unity.” Arthur just raised an eyebrow, so Gwaine continued. “A chance to please the Old Religion _and_ the new.”

“How is stripping down and slapping women with wolf pelts possibly—in _any_ way—going to please anyone?”

“It’s about unity! The Old Religion loves their fertility rites, and the New Religion loves martyrs. It’s this, uh… What’s his name, Merlin?”

“Valentinus.”

“Yes. Valentine.”

“Valentin _us_.”

“That. Right. He married some soldiers.”

“ _What?_ ” Arthur asked.

“Married some Roman soldiers,” Gwaine explained.

“Multiples? Soldiers? Himself?!”

“Yes, Princess, of course.” Gwaine rolled his eyes. “No. They couldn’t marry, I guess.”

“Oh. What a foolish dictate.”

“Well, they did make some poor decisions,” Gwaine admitted.

“Like stupid fertility rituals.” Arthur argued.

“It’ll make the people happy.”

Arthur looked at Merlin. “What do you think?”

Merlin had frowned. “It does seem like an opportunity to unite the people, especially after such a hard winter.”

Gwaine made a triumphant gesture.

“I haven’t said yes yet.”

“Merlin says it’s a good idea, so you’re going to agree.” Arthur sighed. Gwaine was right.

“You have _one week_ to pull this off. Don’t make me regret it. And _no_ sacrifices!”

 

~    ~    ~    ~    ~

 

The night is unseasonably warm and celebratory bonfires are lit in each of Camelot’s public squares. The largest, just outside the castle, holds three, and they scorch any of the revelers careless or daring enough to go near. The feast has spilled out from the great hall, and servants fill goblets with free-flowing wine and mead. Barrels of ale have been rolled from the Rising Sun. Every minstrel, bard, and troubadour in the kingdom has turned out, and the competing melodies create a cacophony of rhythm that stirs something in Arthur and leaves him decentered. He cannot control his knights, let along the rest of his subjects. The fete has become almost bacchanalian. Men and women are dancing freely, ecstatically sharing wine and sweet loaves, roasted meats, and honey-drenched oat cakes.

Gwaine has, naturally, taken a starring role. He’s nearly stripped, wearing some sort of toga-inspired robe made from roughly stitched leather. He’s dancing and carousing with a pair of wolf pelts, and he refuses to answer to any name but Pan. He’s sweating because it’s warm in the fire-lit courtyard.

But it’s Merlin Arthur is… distracted by. He’s wearing some sort of robe that looks vaguely Druidic, though it’s lighter, like gossamer. Arthur thinks it’s opaque, but each time Merlin passes in front of the firelight, he can see the outline of everything it hides. Arthur is fairly certain Merlin is nude beneath its folds. He takes a deep swallow of wine, even though it’s far too fine a vintage to drink fast.

Guinevere skips by. She’s wearing white too, and Arthur knows he should be enjoying the way her hips swing in time with the music. He makes himself match her smile, and then watches her be twirled. _Merlin_. His eyes are sparkling blue like the sea.

“Ladies, gents, one and all!” Gwaine shouts and the music halts. “Now we come to the main event. Write your name on a piece of parchment, and drop it in the urns. Ladies to the right, lords to the left. If you can’t write, find someone who can!” The music resumes and strips of parchment and vellum are passed around. Inky quills splatter exposed skin as the revelers rush to scribble names and fill the urns.

“What is this again?”

“The matchmaking! The perfect union between old and new traditions! You’ll be paired with a fine maid,” Gwaine winks, “for the rest of the night.” He leans close. “Could be the lovely Gwen.”

“Even Guinevere is participating in this nonsense?”

“Of course! Look.” He points. Sure enough, Gwen and Merlin are writing their names. He watches Merlin hand his slip to Gwen, cheeks flushed, lips curved. She dashes off to place them in the urns.

“And then what?” Arthur asks.

“Anything,” Gwaine responds. He waggles his eyebrows in a completely ridiculous manner. “Now come on, Princess.”

Arthur suffers a brief mental image of Merlin doing “anything” with some country girl. It annoys him, so he refuses to consider it further and jots REX ARTURUS on a torn piece of vellum in front of him. He sullenly carries it to the men’s urn and drops it in, thinking of how he might entertain his partner. Tour the castle parapets? Gaulish liquor raided from the cook’s private cellar? He certainly isn’t going to give in to Gwaine’s wolf pelt fertility ritual suggestions, eyebrow waggle be damned.

Merlin slides onto the bench beside him as the rest of the crowd fill the urns. He looks wild and out of breath. The fires and dancing have left the fringes of his hair slightly sweaty, and his skin smells of herbs and incense. Arthur resists leaning in to explore it. His hip is hot where it presses into Merlin’s and he relaxes for the first time all night.

“Your name is in?” Merlin asks. His voice is low in Arthur’s ear: just for him in the raucous crowd.

“Gwaine says it will looks bad if I don’t participate. Like I disapprove or think I’m above it.”

“You mean the truth.”

“That is not the truth!”

“Says the man who hasn’t moved all night.”

“I have too.”

“No, I’ve seen you--”                                                                       

“You’ve been watching me all night?”

Merlin doesn’t answer and Arthur starts to nudge him with his elbow, but something in Merlin’s face makes him stop. Arthur stares at him, trying to decipher it. Merlin’s lips are just barely parted. “So…” he says. “Got your eye on any of these fair country lasses? Or is it the lovely Guinevere you’ve chosen for your royal favour?”

Arthur rubs at the back of his neck. “Does it matter?”

Merlin frowns. “Of course it does. It’s supposed to be a celebration.”

“What am I supposed to do with her, whoever she is?”

Merlin coughs. “Well, Sire, do you need me to actually explain it to you?”

“Don’t be an idiot, Merlin. You know I can’t—it would be an abuse.”

“You don’t think she’ll want to? Not Gwen, I mean—just, anyone.”

“Only because I’m king.”

“Oh Arthur, you…” He trails off, looking everywhere but Arthur’s face.

“I what?”

“You are… so much more than king.” He stands up quickly, nearly toppling the bench. He disappears into the crowd.

“Hear ye, hear ye!” Gwaine calls. The crowd quietens little, but enough. “The first match has been made! Lady Astrid of the Northern Isles and… Sir Leon!” Cheers erupt, and they both blush as they take hands. “Timandra and… Joren!” A fetching village girl steps forward to meet one of Arthur’s youngest soldiers. “Fara and… Turold the Outlander! Exciting nickname, that.” The matches continue.

And they continue.

“The fair lady Guinevere!” Gwaine calls. The crowd collectively holds its breath. “And… ME! Yes!” Gwaine cheers and the crowd joins in. “Finally!” Arthur watches Percy take a long draw from his flagon. “Next is…” Gwaine shuffles through the urn. He reads one and stops. He pulls out another, reads it, and then tosses it back in. “Next is Merlin.” He smiles. “Left and right mixed up?”

“Oh no,” Gwen says. She pales. “I put Merlin’s into the wrong urn. I put them in together and…” She looks horrified.

Arthur sighs in relief, and he refuses to think why. He’s relieved no one is going to rough up his friend. Or give him the pox. That’s it.

Gwaine throws his head back in a hearty, noisy guffaw. “We’re going with it. The old and new gods have spoken. Merlin!” He watches him come forward. “You are paired with…” He digs and rummages and digs more. “Who could it be?” he muses. He reads the slip, laughs harder, pauses to wipe at his eyes, laughs more, _giggles_ , and then yells, “His Royal Highness Arthur, of House Pendragon, the First of His Name! Long live the king!”

An echoed shout of “Long live the king” floods the courtyard—maybe the entire city—and Arthur gawps. He could respond in so many ways. What would his father do? He never would’ve allowed this. But if he had, he’d be enraged. So Arthur does the opposite. He grins, stands, and walks to Merlin. He bends into his most graceful court bow, seldom-used, but drilled into his head from use with an angry father. The crowd cheers and drinks, and Arthur leads Merlin away as Gwaine resumes his matchmaking.

 

The start in the kitchens. Merlin has a truly unnatural ability to break and enter, so Arthur keeps guard while Merlin sneaks into the cellar. He takes as much as he can carry from Cook’s top shelf, and they’re shaking with silent laughter as they run from phantom footsteps. They end up on the castle parapets. Arthur leans against a turret and looks out on his kingdom, which has been consumed by celebration.

“Long live the king,” Merlin quips. He toasts Arthur with whatever cordial he’s poured and savours it. Arthur watches his Adam’s apple bob as he swallows. He smacks his lips and the sound is obscene and makes Arthur’s legs go soft beneath him.

“Can you believe this?” He looks down at the fires. “It looks like we’re besieged.”

Merlin looks, too, gaze gone soft. “Some of us feel that way,” he murmurs.

“What?”

“Nothing.” Merlin turns to Arthur. “Sorry you ended up matched with me, My Lord.”

“Why?”

“It must be disappointing to not be paired off with some busty tavern girl.”  
“I told you, Merlin, that’s—”

“I know, I know. But this is your opportunity to relax a little. Have some fun.”

“I have more fun with you than anyone else,” Arthur replies without thinking. Merlin sucks in a quick breath, and Arthur realizes he’s said it out loud. He meets Merlin’s full gaze, unblinking, and says, “It’s true.”

Merlin gives him a painfully unguarded look. “Arthur…” he whispers.

“And anyway, it’s not like I can do too much. I can’t risk it, you know. Don’t want to leave that burden on anyone.”

“A child?”

“Right.”

“But there’s so much more you could…”

Arthur looks away. It’s cooler away from the fires, and he shivers. “It’s fine.”

“You know, you could still…” Merlin steps close. “Are you cold?”

“Aren’t you?”

“Let me…” Merlin stands even nearer. Arthur feels his body draw from Merlin’s warmth.

“I could still what?” Arthur asks.

“If you want to do something more, you could.”

Arthur’s chest tightens into an impossible knot. He doesn’t know if Merlin wants him to pluck a maiden from the crowd below, or if he means something else. The possibility leaves him desperate to know and terrified of the answer. He shifts his weight away from the turret, and into Merlin. “You’re warm,” he whispers.

Merlin’s arm slips around his back. “And you’re so cold. Here, take a drink.”

“Maybe we should go inside.”

Merlin licks his lips and trails his fingers along Arthur’s flank. His movements are certain and unhesitating, as if he knows Arthur’s body as well as his own. Arthur realizes that by now, he probably does. Every morning and every night—and frequently in between—he’s there, buttoning, tying, and straightening. Arthur is warm now, but he shivers again.

 

They sneak back to Arthur’s chambers like naughty children. It doesn’t matter if the guards see them; he’s king and it’s his prerogative. Still, they tiptoe and rush through empty halls. Most everyone has found a quiet corner or is outside at the festival, but something tells Arthur to hide in the shadows each time a stranger nears. They slink, stealthy, before collapsing in giggles inside Arthur’s door.

It closes with a click and Merlin shushes him, so Arthur shoves him over. “Hey!” Merlin cries. “Watch the wine!” He sets it on a table with a loud clack and shushes himself, grinning. The smile is broad and guileless and Arthur aches.

“I’m sorry you’re stuck with me,” Arthur says. “You probably had your eye on some pretty young maid, too.”

Merlin licks his lips. “Honestly?”

“Yeah.”

“I really can’t think of anywhere I’d rather be.”

Arthur’s vision narrows, as if everything in the world as gone dull except Merlin, who is bright as the sun at the solstice. “Really?” His voice is breathy and foreign, even to himself. He wants Merlin to touch him again, but he isn’t cold. His chest is sweating. His trousers pull tight. He realizes he’s gone hard.

Merlin won’t notice if he doesn’t look down, and he doesn’t. He stares into Arthur’s eyes, asking some question Arthur isn’t sure he can answer. He shouldn’t answer because he has a duty to fulfill; centuries of tradition he needs to continue: heirs to beget, maidens to rescue (though most of them seem pretty content to rescue themselves nowadays). Merlin’s lips quirk into a smile before Arthur realizes he’s looking at them, and maidens be damned. Nothing else matters. Merlin’s name was drawn. Arthur’s name was drawn. If this Valentine is right, this union is worth dying for, and Arthur will never be vanquished without a fight.

Something in his eyes must signify a shift because Merlin gasps and releases a shaky breath. He licks his lips and Arthur catches every movement, transfixed. “I am glad it was you,” Arthur admits. “It isn’t just fun. I—”

Merlin takes a step toward him. “You?”

Arthur reaches a hand out, but lowers it again, uncertain how far he can go. “It’s hard for me to say it, and I know you think I don’t _see_ you, that I don’t know what you do for me.” Merlin lifts a brow but doesn’t interrupt. “I do. I see you, Merlin. It’s just that—I think sometimes _you are me_ and _I am you_.” He frowns. “I mean, you are part of me, like—”

“Two sides of a single coin?”

“Exactly. Yes. There is no me without you, Merlin. You are as necessary to me as my arms, my legs.” He shakes his head. “Not that, though. I may someday…”

“Arthur—”

“My heart. I cannot live without my heart, and that is what you are to me.”

“Arthur.” Merlin takes another step. Arthur can feel his breath against his lips.

“I couldn’t stand thinking you’d be paired with some farm girl. But worse, I couldn’t bear being paired with someone else.”

“Someday, you’ll have to.”

“No.” Arthur clenches his fists. “I don’t… I’ll find a way.”

Merlin reaches out and takes Arthur’s hands in his own. He unpeels the fingers and holds them between his. “No,” he whispers. Arthur’s throat tightens and his chest heaves. “No, _we’ll_ find a way.”

When their lips meet, Arthur feels as if he has climbed the tallest Isgaardian mountain, been struck by lightning, and triumphed over nature herself. Merlin’s lips part against his and he thinks that no, this is death, and he has passed through the veil to Avalon. Merlin’s tongue tangles with his own and he thinks this feeling cannot be of this world; nothing has before nor ever will compare to this ecstasy.

He is wrong.

Merlin’s hands go wild. They are frantic as they tug at Arthur’s clothes. Merlin has undressed Arthur so many times, yet never like this. He undoes ties in a mad rush, but pulls down on the neck of his tunic. His mouth meets Arthur’s throat, and he groans. They both groan. “Merlin, please, let me…” He pushes him toward the bed.

Boots are pulled free and tossed aside. Merlin tugs at Arthur’s shirt and drops it beside the bed. “Gods,” he whispers. He looks at Arthur’s chest as if he has never seen it before. His hands go soft and reverent as he traces his fingers up and down Arthur’s skin. “Is this real?” he asks.

“I hope so,” Arthur answers. He pulls Merlin’s face toward his own, tangling his fingers through the riotous waves. “I want to see you,” he says; his voice is almost a growl. He pulls impatiently at the ridiculous robes. “This thing is driving me—” He stops.

Merlin pulls it free; he _is_ nude underneath.

Arthur is dying. There is no better explanation for the pressure in his chest. He has never seen anything as beautiful as Merlin’s skin. He is wiry, but strong. And now, after years together, Arthur knows how precious this body is, what a thing of wonder. He is terrified and ecstatic and he lets himself _feel_.

Merlin’s skin is smooth, but the rasp of his stubble and fine dusting of chest hair is rough beneath Arthur’s hands. The sensation is new; it is so different than his own, and it stirs him. Merlin likes being touched. Arthur watches his cock twitch, fascinated by its length. He wonders how he has never seen it, in all their patrols and swims. It has been worth the wait, but Arthur aches when he thinks how much time they’ve wasted. “We should always, always do this,” he grunts. Speaking is more difficult when his tongue is laving Merlin’s stomach. He lowers himself and Merlin only makes noises as Arthur takes him in his mouth. He sucks and pulls and even lets his teeth scrape a bit when it elicits frantic sounds. Merlin’s legs are shaking in earnest when he pushes at Arthur and says, “Wait, Arthur, please…”

Merlin shoves Arthur back against the pillows and peels off his trousers. His cock is urgently hard, and it leaves a stream of wet dripping onto Arthur’s stomach, which Merlin touches, eyes wide, and uses to rub around the head. He pulls up on the foreskin and pushes it back, toying with Arthur. “Merlin…” Arthur tries to put a threat in his voice, but it’s futile. He’s wrecked, lost at sea, and never coming back. Merlin hovers over Arthur and kisses it. His lips are wet and plump and Arthur’s vision must be going because it looks like Merlin is glowing gold.

He doesn’t know where the oil comes from, but Merlin has a vial, and he rubs it into his hands and onto Arthur’s arousal. “Arthur,” he says, “I want to—”

“Anything, _yes_ , please, _Merlin_.”

“Do you want to take me or do you want me to—”

“ _Yes_ , Merlin, please.” Arthur wants to squeeze his eyes shut, but he cannot bear to look away. Merlin’s lips are parted as he pants. He is covered in a light sheen of sweat and he is looking at Arthur as if he worships him. Arthur thinks, _I worship you_ , and the look on Merlin’s face makes him wonder if he said it aloud. “I need you,” he groans.

“I love you,” Merlin whispers.

They stop. Merlin looks stunned.

“I love you.” Arthur does not whisper. He is so afraid; he will not back away. They both smile.

Merlin presses himself tentatively against Arthur’s tip. He gasps and pulls off. “Oh,” he exhales.

“Slow, slow.”

They take their time. Arthur uses a finger first, gentle. He waits until Merlin is ready before he adds more, and then it is time. Merlin lowers himself onto Arthur and lets himself be filled. They are connected. They are remade: one being, two sides, equal and necessary. The night is filled with the sounds of their love. Arthur does not know who cries out or who is quiet, but he knows tears fill their eyes, both of them, as they collapse together.

 

Later, Merlin will take Arthur. They will explore their bodies leisurely, in Arthur’s rooms. Arthur will be rough with Merlin as he claims him after a hunt; he will savour him in the throne room after the courtiers have long since gone to bed. Merlin will command his king to bend to his will, in a clearing in the Darkling Wood and one night, quickly behind the Rising Sun Tavern. They will have each other because they belong to each other. They will hold each other.

 

It's probably Gwaine’s fault. This Lupercalia, this day of Valentine, it was Gwaine’s idea. 

**Author's Note:**

> I am not ignoring my WIPs, promise. I'll have chapter 21 of S&S up in the next couple of days and chapter 2 of Bake Off.... later. It's harder to write!
> 
> If you like this, I'd LOVE for you to say hi and let me know. Really really!  
> And THANK YOU for reading this. I really appreciate you taking the time.


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